All Good People Here(68)

“Everything okay?” Pete asked hesitantly.

Margot put her phone back onto the table a bit too hard. “Everything’s great. I just have to pay rent for a place I’m no longer living, but yeah, maybe I should just stop working and stay home with my uncle instead.” She felt idiotic and fraudulent to be defending a job she no longer actually had, but her face was throbbing, she was overwhelmed with Luke, and she felt inches away from the biggest story of her life—if she could just find the time to piece it together.

“I’m sorry,” Pete said, standing up. “I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s fine. Really. But I think I should clean the kitchen now.”

“I…” He sighed. “Sure. Okay.”



* * *



—

After Pete left, Margot put the leftover pizza in the fridge, cleaned the kitchen—again—and sent Hank his money. Then she grabbed her laptop from her room and settled onto the couch with Luke.

He gave her a vague, vacant smile, then turned his face back to the TV. Margot’s chest ached. She knew why Pete’s suggestion had hit her so hard, and it wasn’t because of any sexist undertones. It was because his condemnation was exactly what she said to herself in her worst moments. She worked too much. She wasn’t there for her family. After all, here she was, in the wake of one of Luke’s worst episodes yet, and all she could think about was January’s case. Maybe Pete was right. Maybe she should just get a waitressing job and hire a part-time caregiver until she could find something more lucrative and less time-consuming. And yet. And yet.

Elliott Wallace’s name echoed in her mind like a taunt. She’d sat across from him, had listened to his words and looked in his eyes, and he’d fooled her. The whole time he’d been acting concerned about Polly Limon’s murder and he’d gotten away with it. He’d gotten away with January’s murder, and now he was getting away with Natalie’s too. And Margot was the only one who knew he was guilty. She knew it inside her as certainly as she knew she loved her uncle, as certainly as she knew she was meant to be a reporter. The knowledge had heft and density. It was solid as bone.

On the living room couch, Margot rested her laptop on her thighs and turned it on. If Pete wouldn’t help her, she’d have to nail this fucker herself. But where did she start? She glanced absently at the show Luke was watching—some animal documentary on big cats—as she tried to remember everything Jace had told her about January’s “imaginary friend.” He’d said that Elephant Wallace had played with January on the playground, hadn’t he? That Wallace had gone to her recitals?

An idea hit Margot and she pulled up a Google tab. She typed the words January Jacobs plus dance into the search bar, then selected the Images filter. Ordinarily, to find photos for a case like this, she’d have to go to the girl’s dance studio or contact her parents. But January’s case was so famous Margot knew every photo attached to it had been splashed on the internet since the moment the internet was invented. Sure enough, the results materialized within seconds, spitting out thousands upon thousands of images. The first fifteen photos or so were all the same one, the most famous of the case: January in a nautical-themed costume, her chestnut hair teased, her lips bright red.

After that were dozens of similar shots: January in dance costumes, posing alone, her lipsticked lips smiling. Scattered among them were photos from the case: Billy, Krissy, and Jace at press conferences, on Sandy Watters’s couch, outside their home. In all of them, they looked solemn and scared. Margot scrolled.

The first photo she clicked on was twelve pages deep in the results. It was a wide shot of one of January’s performances, capturing the entire stage and some of the audience. Margot zoomed in, examining the heads of the audience members, but up close, they turned into no more than fuzzy blurs. She clicked back to the results page.

Margot wasn’t sure how much time had passed when she finally found something, and it was only when Luke snapped his head to look at her that she realized she’d audibly gasped.

“Rebecca?” he said. “Are you okay?”

Margot nodded. “Fine. I’m fine. Sorry.” She flashed him a weak smile, then turned quickly back to the photo on her laptop.

It had been taken in what was no doubt one of the auditoriums where January’s dance recitals were staged. January was in center frame, an enormous bouquet of white roses in her arms. Behind her was a mass of people—other little girls in costumes, moms and dads, sisters and brothers, aunts and uncles. And there, in the far-right corner, miniscule and blurry, but still recognizable, was Elliott Wallace. He was standing alone with his unblinking gaze focused on the back of January’s head.

Margot had found him.

She stared, heart pounding. She could hardly believe it. After being told she was wrong so many times—by her ex-boss, by Detective Lacks, by Detective Townsend—Margot had been vindicated.

But then, as she stared at the face of the man she was so sure was a killer, something else caught her eye—a familiar red smudge at the edge of the photo.

“No.” The word came out of her as a whisper.

It wasn’t possible. It didn’t make any sense. Luke had always said he didn’t know Billy or Krissy. And he certainly hadn’t known January, so he would’ve had no reason to go to her dance recitals. But then why, in this photo that had clearly been taken after one of January’s performances, was Margot staring at him now? Though half his face had been cut off by the frame, she could see his image clearly. He was far closer than Elliott Wallace, and she could see his ear, his jaw, and the giveaway: his favorite red bandanna wrapped around his neck, the very one Margot had given him for Christmas all those years ago.